


Have a Heart

by Potrix



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barista Bucky Barnes, Cop Peggy, Cop Steve, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Ex-Military Bucky, Homeless Tony, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Past Obadiah Stane/Tony Stark - Freeform, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Underage Sex, Runaway Tony, Sad with a Happy Ending, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-12-03 04:12:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11524311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/pseuds/Potrix
Summary: Sociable is probably one of the last words his friends would use to describe Bucky Barnes, and with good reason. It’s not that Bucky doesn’t like people, he’s just very selective about who’s deserving of his friendship and affection. There are only so many times a person can put themselves out there, and get burnt before they stop trying.Bucky has learned that particular lesson the hard way—thanks for absolutely fucking nothing, Brock Asswipe Rumlow—but that doesn’t mean he’s heartless. Which is what he’d have to be in order to walk past the crying kid sitting at the abandoned bus stop at nearly eleven in the evening.Or; Bucky is grumpy, picks up a stray, and bakes a lot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syriala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syriala/gifts).



> (Originally written for [syriala](http://archiveofourown.org/users/syriala), who shared [this heartbreaking prompt](http://bloody-bee-tea.tumblr.com/post/142849701316/my-parents-kicked-me-out-and-youre-the-only#permalink-notes) over on tumblr.)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I'm cleaning out my WIP folder—or trying to, at least—and found this little piece of Bucky/Tony drama. I've finished the outline, and hope to post once a week on Sundays. Don't hold me to that—or the chapter count—though, you'll only disappoint yourselves. Rated E for some pretty nasty off-screen/past stuff. 
> 
> Please mind the tags, this story is going to get painful and dark before we get to the happy ending.

Sociable is probably one of the last words his friends would use to describe Bucky Barnes, and with good reason. It’s not that Bucky doesn’t like people, he’s just very selective about who’s deserving of his friendship and affection. There are only so many times a person can put themselves out there, and get burnt before they stop trying.

Bucky has learned that particular lesson the hard way—thanks for absolutely fucking nothing, Brock Asswipe Rumlow—but that doesn’t mean he’s heartless. Which is what he’d have to be in order to walk past the crying kid sitting at the abandoned bus stop at nearly eleven in the evening.

“Hey,” Bucky calls, immediately feeling like crap when that makes the kid startle, and drop the small plastic cup he’d been holding, steaming coffee splashing all over his shirt and jeans. “Shit, sorry,” he hisses sympathetically, and quickly closes the remaining distance between them, grabbing one of the kid’s hands to check it for burns. “You okay? Did you get any on your fingers?”

There’s no reply, and when Bucky glances up at the kid’s face, he’s met with wide, panicked eyes. “Sorry,” Bucky says, again, and lets go of the kid. He slowly holds up his hands to show that he means no harm. “Didn’t mean to spook ya.”

The kid—teen, really, now that Bucky's looking more closely—ducks his head, shoulders hunching, and wraps the arm not curled around his backpack tightly around himself. It makes the sleeve of his sweatshirt slide back enough for Bucky to spot the dark purple, and suspiciously finger-shaped marks around his wrist. Still slowly, and clearly telegraphing his movements, Bucky crouches down in front of the teen, trying to catch his eye. Which doesn’t work since the teen is less than cooperative, but it puts Bucky in the perfect position to see the teen’s split lip, and the beginnings of what will undoubtedly turn into a spectacular set of bruises decorating his jaw.

Well. Fuck.

Bucky sits back on his haunches, and rubs his hands over his face, thoughtfully tapping his fingers against his lips for a moment before asking, “What’s your name?”

The teen doesn’t look up, but he does murmur, almost too quiet to hear, “Tony.”

“Hi, Tony,” Bucky says, smiling what he hopes is a reassuring smile when Tony risks a shy glance up at him. “My name’s Bucky. Yeah, I know, but it’s better than James, and don’t even get me started on my middle name. Complete disaster, that one.”

The—admittedly terrible—attempt at a joke makes the corner of Tony’s mouth twitch ever so faintly. Bucky decides to count that as a success.

“Where’re you headed this late?” he tries next, silently cursing himself when Tony’s expression turns wary, and he clutches his rucksack even closer against his chest. “I didn’t mean—shit, okay, look. You’re hurt, it’s freezin', and there are no more buses comin' tonight. Is there someone I can call for you?”

That is the wrong thing to ask, apparently. Tony’s face scrunches up, chin trembling, and then he’s crying again, even harder than before, big, heaving sobs, runny nose, desperate little gasps, and everything. “He—he told me to le—leave,” he manages to stutter out, screwing his eyes shut, and pulling his feet up onto the bench, hiding his face away in his knees. “He was so—so angry, I couldn’t even pa—pack all my things, I don’t have my phone or—or my wallet, I ju—just ran.”

Bucky has to dig his nails into his palm to keep his anger in check. He’s intimately familiar with abusive parents, courtesy of growing up on the wrong side of the tracks, but seeing the effects never gets any easier. “Okay, hey, ssh,” he soothes, pulling off his jacket, and carefully draping it over Tony’s shaking shoulders. “Here’s what we’re going to do. First, I’m goin' to show you my ID so you know I haven’t been lyin' about bein' called James, and then you’re goin' to hold on to that while I text my friend Steve. Okay? You with me so far, Tony?”

Tony blinks huge, red-rimmed eyes up at Bucky, but nods jerkily after a few seconds.

“Good, okay,” Bucky breathes, fumbling his wallet out of his pocket, and handing over his ID as promised. He keeps talking while he types out a message to Steve. “My friend, Steve, he’s with the police. Both him and his wife, Peggy. They’re goin' to come pick us up, and help us figure out what to do next. Okay?”

“He wo—he won’t change his mi—mind,” Tony wails miserably, yanking sharply at his hair. Bucky wants to take his hands, and make him stop, but refrains, fearing it wouldn’t be taken well. “He hates me. He to—told me, he hates me.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Bucky says, relieved when Steve texts back that he’ll be there as soon as possible. He tucks the jacket a bit tighter around Tony, then decides fuck it, and plops his hat down on Tony’s head as well. “I promise, Tony. We’ll figure it out.”

By the time Steve and Peggy arrive, Tony has cried himself into exhaustion, and doesn’t protest when Peggy—just as furious as Bucky, but infinitely better at hiding it—leads him to sit in the back of her cruiser. Steve watches them go with a funny look on his face.

“What?” Bucky demands once they’re out of earshot, gratefully accepting the spare coat Steve tosses him.

Steve raises an eyebrow back at him. “Do you know who that is?” He rolls his eyes at Bucky’s blank look. “That’s Tony Stark. As in, seventeen-year-old son of Howard Stark, the eccentric billionaire genius currently under investigation for fraud, tax evasion, and embezzlement.”

“Shit,” Bucky says, for what feels like the hundredth time in the last half hour. “Shit, Stevie. You can’t put him in a group home, they’re goin' to eat him alive.”

“Buck,” Steve sighs, but doesn’t actually disagree. “We have to, it’s regulation. Oh, shut up,” he huffs at Bucky’s incredulous snort, playfully punching Bucky’s shoulder. “I’d take him for the night, you know I would, but we don’t have the space. Nat and Sharon are sharing a room already, and I don’t think Clint’s ready for a roomie just yet. And Bruce is on the couch.”

“You have too many damned kids,” Bucky groans, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He adores his adopted nieces and nephews, but they’re all a good ten or more years younger than Tony, and Peggy and Steve’s apartment only has the three bedrooms. Throwing Tony into the mix probably won’t end well, which only really leaves him with one option. “He can stay with me.”

Steve purses his lips. “You’re going to get me fired.”

Bucky tilts his head to the side, biting back a grin. “Is that a no?”

“Of course it’s not a no,” Steve says, trying and completely failing to sound stern. “Get in the car,” he grumbles half-heartedly, batting a hand at Bucky’s face when Bucky presses a wet, smacking kiss to his cheek. “Asshole.”

Tony seems relieved when Bucky slides into the car next to him, scooting closer until he’s practically cuddled up against Bucky’s side. Bucky—very cautiously—wraps an arm around him, not actually surprised to find Tony snoring into his neck before they’ve even pulled out into the main street.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Peggy says, locking eyes with him in the rear-view mirror.

Bucky holds her gaze for a moment, then glances down at Tony’s face, slack and peaceful in sleep. “Yeah. Me too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since several people have asked about this; Bucky is in his mid-twenties, and Tony is 17 at this point in the story. The age of consent in New York is 17, as far as I know, but nothing sexual is going to happen between Tony and Bucky until Tony is well over 18, for a lot of reasons. 
> 
> **Warnings (with slight spoilers) for this chapter:** Some very vague allusions to Howard's abusive behaviour, a kiss between Tony and Bucky (which Tony initiates and Bucky puts and end to pretty quickly).

Tony wakes up to a tentative hand on his shoulder, and someone softly calling his name. “Five more minutes,” he mumbles through a yawn, and snuggles closer against the source of warmth under him, letting out a contented sigh once he’s settled more comfortably.

But he’s awake enough now to feel the chuckle vibrating through the chest he’s lying on, and it doesn’t sound familiar. At all. And wow, his head hurts like a motherfucker, which isn’t actually surprising after the way Howard had—

Eyes snapping open, Tony shoots up into a fully sitting position, immediately regretting that decision when the movement makes his ribs scream in protest. Ignoring the pain, he scrambles away until his back hits the—the door of a car, right. Breathing hard, Tony screws his eyes shut again, and tips his head back against the blessedly cool car window, willing himself not to cry. In front of complete strangers. Again.

“You’re safe,” someone says, low and soothing. “Hey, Tony. Can you look at me? Please?”

Biting back a sob, and blinking rapidly against the tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, Tony looks up at—at Bucky.

“Hi, there,” Bucky says, smiling encouragingly. “Do you remember what happened?”

Tony nods jerkily, fingers twitching around the ID he’s still holding in one hand. He glances at the other two people in the car—Peggy and Steve, his annoyingly sluggish brain supplies after a moment—and relaxes minutely when he remembers they’re cops. Steve is frowning, but not in an angry way, Tony thinks, and Peggy gives him a jaunty little wave when Tony’s gaze lands on her.

“We’re at Bucky’s,” Peggy informs him, but quickly adds, “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, sweetheart,” when Tony tenses. “We can drive you to a group home, if that’s what you prefer. We’d actually be following protocol for once if we did, Captain Phillips would be thrilled,” she says, which must be some sort of inside joke, because it makes Steve roll his eyes, and Bucky snort out a laugh.

“I—” Tony starts, wincing at the rawness of his throat. Ugh, crying sucks. He nervously licks his lips, then bites the inside of his cheek, considering his options. He doesn’t know Bucky, but so far he seems pretty trustworthy. The press is also less likely to find him if he stays off the grid, and it’s probably easier to sneak out of Bucky’s apartment than some home with 24/7 adult supervision. “I—I think I’d like to stay with Bucky?”

“Here,” Steve says, drawing Tony’s attention back to him, and putting a piece of paper on the console between them. He doesn’t touch Tony, or make Tony take it out of his hand, for which Tony—being in an admittedly vulnerable position right now—is embarrassingly grateful. “That’s our home number, Peggy’s cell, and mine. And the number for our work at the bottom. If you change your mind, or need anything, or just want to talk, you can call us anytime. Okay?”

Tony waits for Steve’s hand to retreat, then snatches up the paper, and stuffs it into his pocket. “Thanks,” he mumbles, ducking his head when Steve smiles at him, and tells him it’s not a problem.

They’re in Brooklyn, Tony realises when he steps out of the car. It’s dark, but the neighbourhood looks nice, cosy, mostly consisting of brownstones, currently closed shops, and a few cafés and bars. Bucky leads him to a house with a small bakery on the ground floor, and the story above converted into a spacious loft-type apartment with huge windows, and rustic wooden floors.

“Shower’s through there,” Bucky says, pointing at the only other door in the room. “If, you know. You want to freshen up. There are towels in the cupboard under the sink. Spare toothbrush should be in the mirror cabinet. Do you have a change of clothes? Okay,” he says, when Tony nods, “just let me know if there’s anythin' else you need.”

“Why are you helping me?” Tony asks instead, cringing at the suspicion in his voice. Even if it’s warranted, no one likes being accused of things. “I mean, it’s just,” he shrugs, a little awkwardly, “you don’t know me.”

Bucky doesn’t seem offended, though. “My mom died when my youngest sister was only two. And my dad, well. He was military, never really around much until he had to be. Drank a lot, yelled even more.” He sighs, and ruffles a hand through his hair, accidentally pulling some strands loose from their bun. It’s a good look on him, and Tony quickly averts his eyes before he’s caught staring. “Let’s just say I know a thing or two about shitty parenting.”

“But you don’t know me,” Tony insists, making a frustrated noise in the back of his throat when he feels a fresh wave of tears coming on. “You don’t even know what I did. Maybe I deserved—”

“No,” Bucky cuts in sharply, making Tony jump. He grimaces apologetically. “No, Tony. You’re a kid. No kid deserves that,” he says, eyes flickering to Tony’s split lip. Before Tony can protest, he adds, “No matter what you did. You’re the kid, your dad’s the adult. He should know better.”

Tony wants to point out that he’s seventeen, not really a kid anymore, but the determined jut of Bucky’s chin tells him there’s no use arguing about it. ”I’ll just,” he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bathroom. “I, uh. Yeah. Shower.”

Once he’s clean, and warmed up from the hot water, Tony pulls on a pair of sweats from his backpack, and one of Rhodey’s huge football jerseys. They’re his comfort clothes, and he’s definitely in need of some comfort right now. In one night, he’s been caught doing something Howard considers unforgivable, has lost his only ally with any sway over his father in the process, and been effectively disowned, and kicked out of his home.

When he wanders back out of the bathroom, Bucky’s standing in the open kitchen, his back turned. Tony takes a moment to appreciate his ass in boxer briefs and a tight undershirt, then slinks into the kitchen, careful to stay out of arm’s reach. If Bucky notices, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he pours two cups of hot chocolate, and makes sure to take a sip from his mug before pushing the other across the counter to Tony.

“I’d really like to take a look at that,” he says, tapping his own lower lip for clarification. “We should probably tape it.”

Tony really wants to say no. But his lip has started bleeding again during his shower, and it’s actually starting to hurt enough to be distinguishable from his general headache. So, reluctantly, he says, “Yeah, okay.”

Bucky smiles, and while it’s disarming, Tony still can’t suppress a flinch at the first careful brush of Bucky’s fingers against his jaw. Bucky is gentle, though, and doesn’t touch Tony more than strictly necessary while applying the butterfly bandages, and then—after giving Tony a strict look that reminds Tony of Jarvis, and immediately makes him cave, and admit that his ribs are probably bruised—helping him wrap his ribs.

After the initial wariness, Tony begins to lean into Bucky’s touch, the stress of the night catching up with him, and making his eyes droop. The shock is wearing off as well, making him groggy and sleepy. It’s not exactly planned, but when Bucky moves back, it seems like a good idea to follow, and press their mouths together.

Bucky immediately jerks back, but hooks a finger under Tony’s chin when Tony, flushing in embarrassment, tries to look away. “What was that?”

“I—” Tony murmurs, and rubs a hand over his dampening eyes, silently cursing himself for being so damned stupid. Bucky’s probably not even gay, and even if he were, why the hell would he want some stupid, constantly crying kid he’s known for less than three hours? “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again. I’m—I’m tired, and you’re being nice to me, and just—just, thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” Bucky says, expression softening again. “I don’t know who made you think that basic human kindness needs to be repaid like that, but I’d really like to punch them in the throat. Repeatedly.”

That manages to startle a wet, hiccupy laugh out of Tony. Bucky grins at him, and gives his shoulder a brief squeeze before stepping back fully. “C’mon. I made up the couch for you.”

Surprisingly, Tony falls asleep quickly, too exhausted to keep tossing and turning for long. Less surprising is that he wakes up again barely an hour later, heart beating wildly, his hands and forehead clammy with fear sweat. He knows he’s as safe as he can get here, far away from Howard, but knowing it and believing it are two entirely different things.

Tony kicks off his blanket, and stands on wobbly legs, unsure what to do for a moment. Eventually, he turns towards the bathroom, but the way there takes him by Bucky’s bed, and once he sees Bucky—sleeping peacefully, hair adorably mussed, and blanket tangled around his legs—the need for contact, for some sort of closeness, becomes too strong to ignore.

He has one knee on the mattress, moving as slowly as possible, when Bucky murmurs a husky, “What’re you doin’?”

“Had a nightmare,” Tony blurts before he can think better of it. But it, combined with the shakiness of his voice, seems to do the trick.

With a half sigh, half yawn, Bucky shuffles over, and pats the newly freed space on the bed. “No funny business. Just sleep.”

Tony nods, hurrying onto the bed before Bucky can take it back. “Thanks,” he whispers, but all he gets in return is an incomprehensible grumble, followed by soft snore. Smiling to himself, Tony lies down properly, and tugs one edge of the blanket over himself. He stretches his arm out just enough to touch the tips of his fingers against Bucky’s side, and closes his eyes.

He’ll deal with the mess that is his life tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, posting on time for the third week in a row. What is this sorcery?
> 
> **Warnings (with slight spoilers) for this chapter:** Bucky feels guilty about letting Tony sleep in his bed. Vague allusions to a sexually/physically absusive past relationship between Bucky and Brock. Mention of completely healthy, happy, and consensual past Bucky/Jacques/OMC.

Bucky wakes to a weight on his chest. He blinks blearily a couple of times, until a head of messy brown hair comes into focus. “Aw, shit.” 

Tony mumbles quietly under his breath, hand squeezing where it’s curled over Bucky’s hip, and presses closer against Bucky’s side. He tries to throw a leg over both of Bucky’s, but makes a distressed noise halfway through, face scrunching up in pain. He grumbles some more when Bucky, slow and careful as not to wake him, inches out from underneath him, but settles down again when Bucky pushes a pillow into his arms. 

Yawning, Bucky rolls out of bed, and winces guiltily as he adjusts himself in his boxers. He shouldn’t have let Tony crawl into bed with him last night; not under normal circumstances, and definitely not after the kiss, and what it implies about Tony’s relationship with sex. Bucky probably never should’ve taken Tony in at all, if he’d wanted to be on the safe and legal side, but making dumb decisions when presented with someone in need is totally, one-hundred percent Bucky’s M.O. 

It’s how he met Steve, and broke his nose for the first time. 

Thinking about getting punched in the face helps with Bucky’s half chub, at least, but he still feels weirdly unsettled about waking up with another guy cuddled up to him for the first time in what seems like forever. He dresses quickly, pulls his hair up into a messy bun to get it out of the way, and, after making sure Tony’s more or less comfortable and knows where to find him, flees downstairs.

The sun’s barely up when he unlocks the connecting door to the bakery, then the front door in case one of the Howlies has had a bad night, and is up already. After turning on the radio to something slow and soothing, Bucky starts pulling out flours and bowls, whistling softly to himself. The half hour right around dawn when everything’s quiet and still is Bucky’s favourite part of the day, and the perfect time for baking, which has always been something he could lose himself in; measuring and pouring, the repetitive kneading motions, the deliciously calming scent of freshly baked bread. 

He’s startled out of his zone by the sound of cheerful voices in the front room shortly after eight, and rolls his eyes when that is immediately followed by loud demands of coffee. “You know where the cups are,” he yells back, “just don’t break anythin’ for a change, ‘kay?” 

“Oui, oui,” Jacques says, at the same time as Dum Dum grouses, “One time, kid. It was one time.”

Bucky joins them with a fresh batch of muffins a few minutes later, slapping wandering hands so he can put the platter down on the table without dropping anything. “There you go, you animals.” 

Dum Dum grins around what looks like half a muffin. “We’re your best customers.”

“You ain’t customers at all,” Bucky protests, taking a seat next to Jacques. “Customers pay.” 

Gabe puts a hand over his heart, feigning shock. “Our company isn’t payment enough?” 

“Words hurt, James,” Morita adds, in his usual deadpan voice, and Monty nods along sagely. 

“You’re all assholes,” Bucky accuses, but doesn’t bother to hide his smile. “Get outta my bakery.” 

That starts off a new round of booing and protests, and ends when Jacques drapes himself over Bucky to smack a loud, wet kiss on his cheek. Bucky makes an exaggerated face of disgust despite his laughter, and shoves him away with a completely unconvincing, “Gross, man.” 

Jacques sniffs haughtily. “I’m a catch, mon ami.” 

Bucky flicks his face. “‘M sure your husband agrees.” 

“Children, settle down,” Dum Dum chides, as if he isn’t the biggest shit-stirrer of them all. He points at Bucky with what Bucky thinks might be his third muffin, and demands, “Jokes aside, what’s up with you, kid?” 

“You look like shit,” Morita agrees. 

Monty reaches across the table to pat Bucky’s hand. “Talk to your Uncle Jim.” 

“You’re six years older than me,” Bucky points out, but Monty only smiles, and pats him some more. 

It’s oddly comforting—all of them are, in their weird, obnoxious, protective older brother ways—and Bucky can’t help but smile back. But then he groans, and rubs a hand over his face, letting his head fall against the wall at his back. “So, I mighta done somethin’ stupid.”

No one interrupts while Bucky explains about Tony, though he does get several pairs of raised eyebrows when he mentions Tony’s last name, and Dum Dum pulls a face when Bucky admits to the kiss and the fact that Tony slept in his bed. 

“Hey,” Bucky snaps, defensive. “I didn’t touch him. I wouldn’t do that.” 

Dum Dum shoots him an flat look. “ Of course not, don’t look at me like that. Christ, Bucky, we all know that. We know you.” 

Bucky deflates at that, because they really do. They know about his mom’s death and his dad’s drinking, they know about the not exactly legal ways he tried to earn money for himself and his sisters during his teenage years, and they know about Brock. Hell, Dum Dum’s the one who used to let Bucky crawl into his sleeping bag when Bucky woke up shaking uncontrollably almost every night the first few weeks after the breakup; Monty and Gabe are the ones who convinced him to tell Steve and press charges; Morita’s the one who recommended his sister as a lawyer; and Jacques and his husband are the ones who brought Bucky into their bed and were so, so patient with him when Bucky was afraid to be intimate with anyone else for months after Brock. 

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky sighs, burying his face in his hands. “‘M sorry.”

Jacques throws an arm over his shoulders to pull him in close and give him a squeeze, and Dum Dum says, “Don’t be sorry. Just let us worry about you. And your little stray.” 

“I’ll call my sister,” Morita offers, “she’ll know where to go from here, what you can do to help Tony out.” 

Bucky ducks his head. “Thanks, guys. Really.” 

“Anything,” Gabe says. 

“Pay for your food?” Bucky suggests, grinning. 

Monty clucks his tongue. “Harsh, my friend. Harsh.” 

Bucky leaves them to their renewed squabbling to hide out in the kitchen, and just breathe for a moment. It’s been a few years since Brock, and he knows he’s made huge progress in his recovery, but he’ll never enjoy talking or even thinking about one of the shittiest times in his life. 

“Fuck ‘im,” Bucky says, firm, and nods to himself. Let that asshole rot in fucking prison where he belongs. 

After checking on the bread in the oven, Bucky pulls out his phone, and opens his conversation with Steve to type: _anything abt stark sr?_

It takes less than a minute for Steve to write back. _You didn’t ask me to look into his case._

Bucky smiles knowingly. _U sayin u didnt?_

And, sure enough, when he checks his phone again after laying the bread out to cool, there’s another message from Steve. _I’ll bring everything I have over at lunch._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure how to show Tony's memories, so now they just start/end with a ~ and are cursive. That should be clear, I hope.
> 
> **Warnings (with slight spoilers) for this chapter:** Implied/past underage drinking and sex. A minor being coerced into drinking/sex by an adult.

Tony wakes slowly for once, instead of jolting awake as he’s slipping off his workbench after falling asleep over a project. Or being woken by Howard’s angry yelling. Or getting kicked out of bed, and being sent home in the middle of the night. It’s a refreshing change.

He’s comfortably warm, wrapped up snugly in a soft blanket, and several pillows have been tucked against his side to keep him from rolling over, and jarring his bruised ribs. Yawning, Tony peels open his eyes, and glances over at the other side of the bed. There’s a pang of disappointment when he finds it empty, but mostly, Tony’s glad for it; he has jumped into bed with strangers before, but never with anything other in mind than getting off. Sharing a bed just for the sake of not being alone is new, and Tony isn’t sure how he feels about it yet.

The curtains have been drawn against the morning sun, and for a moment, Tony considers just going back to sleep. He’s tired, there’s no work waiting for him, and he’s as safe as he’s likely to get; perfect conditions to catch up on some much needed rest. But curiosity wins out eventually, because Tony can’t see Bucky anywhere in the apartment, and there’s no noise coming from the bathroom, either.

Tony sits up gingerly, hand pressed against his side, happy to note that while his ribs hurt, it’s not as bad as he’d feared. Wrapping them must have made the difference this time around. The left side of his face is throbbing dully, and his lip stings when he goes to probe at the cut with his tongue, but the butterfly bandages are still in place, at least. And, when Tony turns to slide his legs over the edge of the bed, there’s a glass of water on the bedside table, along with a blister packet of Ibuprofen, and a folded piece of paper.

That’s what Tony picks up first, unable to keep the fond smile off his face as he reads: _Thought I’d let you sleep in. Come downstairs whenever you’re ready, there’s coffee and breakfast. I put some clothes on the armchair, in case you need them._

His stomach flutters funnily, and Tony scowls down at it, betrayed. Bucky’s just being a decent human being, there’s no reason to get all excited about it. Chances are Bucky isn’t into guys anyway, and even if he were, he could do way better than Tony, the crying mess he’s literally found outside on the street.

Sighing—so much for his good mood—Tony heaves himself upright, and reaches for the water. After swallowing two of the pills, he makes a quick detour to the bathroom, then goes to inspect the clothes. He pulls on a pair of thick, woollen socks, and a clearly loved, often worn black hoodie with 'Howling Commandos' written across the back, pushing the too long sleeves back over his hands.

He can hear voices as soon as he steps out of the apartment, and he follows them down the stairs, through an unassuming door, and into the bakery slash café he vaguely remembers from last night. It’s bigger than it had looked from the outside, with several tables scattered around the room, and the counter, display cases, and a door which, presumably, leads to the kitchen in the back. The air is filled with the mouthwatering scent of freshly baked bread and sugary treats, making Tony’s stomach growl in anticipation.

Loud enough to make every single person in the room drop whatever they’re doing, and look over at Tony. Cheeks flushing in embarrassment, Tony self-consciously wraps his arms around his middle, and seriously thinks about turning tail and fleeing. Before he can run off, however, a man with the bushiests handlebar Tony’s ever seen leans back in his chair, and yells in the general direction of the supposed kitchen, “Bucky! Your stray’s up!”

A moment later, Bucky appears in the door, pointing a finger at the guy. “Inside voice, Dum Dum, for fuck’s sake.”

“Language,” another man drawls in a heavy French accent. He looks completely unimpressed by the glare Bucky aims at him in return.

Bucky huffs, and braces a hand on his hip. “That’s it. No more free coffee for any of you,” he declares, and ignores the resulting whining and protests, turning to face Tony instead. “Mornin’, sleepyhead. Feel free to ignore those freeloadin’ assholes. You hungry?” When Tony nods, Bucky waves at one of the free tables. “Take a seat, I’ll get you something.”

Tony eyes the indicated spot, nervously chewing the inside of his cheek. Sitting there would mean walking between the two occupied tables, and then having all five men currently in the room between Bucky and himself. Slowly, Tony inches closer to where Bucky’s working the coffee machine, relieved when none of the men—who seem to be in the middle of an argument involving at least three different languages—pay him any attention, and hops onto the counter.

Bucky glances up at him, and Tony freezes because shit, that’s kind of a rude thing to do, isn’t it? But then Bucky smiles, and puts a lazily steaming cup down next to Tony. “You need sugar? Milk?”

“No, thanks,” Tony mumbles, tugging the cup closer. “This is fine. Thank you.”

“How’re your ribs?” Bucky asks, ducking back into the kitchen, but talking loud enough that Tony can still hear him. “Actually, how are you feelin’, generally speakin’? How’s the head?”

Tony takes a sip of his coffee, humming happily at the sharp, bitter taste. Perfect. “I’m fine.” Bucky’s answering silence somehow feels scolding, so Tony admits, “Everything hurts. But it’s not so bad. I’ve had worse.”

“That,” Bucky says as he walks back out into the room, and exchanges Tony’s empty cup for a plate of croissants, sliced in half, and smeared liberally with butter and what looks like blueberry jam, “is not reassuring in the least, you know that, right?”

Tony shrugs, glancing down at his breakfast to avoid Bucky’s gaze. “It’s what it is.”

There’s another moment of quiet, followed by a sigh, and then Bucky’s soft, “Go ahead, eat. I’ll get you some more coffee.”

The first two croissant halves are inhaled without Tony really tasting them—he hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning, sue him—and the third he gulps down with most of the new coffee Bucky brings him. He shoots Bucky a shy, sheepish smile once he’s swallowed. “Sorry.”

“Hey, not judgin’,” Bucky says, clearly amused. “I’ll take it as a compliment to my baking skills. The jam’s from Peggy, though, can’t take credit for that.”

“‘S good,” Tony mumbles around another mouthful, grinning when Bucky rolls his eyes, and pointedly flicks some crumbs off the counter.

While he finishes the rest of his breakfast, Tony listens to the bickering from Dum Dum and his group, and watches Bucky roll out dough, impressed by the speed and dexterity of Bucky’s prosthetic arm, now that he’s properly seeing it for the first time. When he’s done eating, Tony carries his plate and cup into the kitchen—he has some manners—before resuming his spot on the counter, contenting himself with rifling through the stack of newspapers laid out for the customers. It’s the same as always—the situation in the Middle East, politicians being shady, random New York weirdness—until he pulls out the day’s copy of the Daily Bugle, and goes cold all over.

_~“Are you sure about this?” Tony asks, eyes flickering anxiously across the packed dancefloor. “What if someone sees?”_

_“My dear boy,” Obie says, somehow understanding, and demanding all at once. He holds out his tumbler for Tony to take, curling Tony’s sluggish, tipsy fingers around it when Tony fumbles with it. Then he taps the bottom of the glass, smiling an encouraging smile down at Tony, and Tony starts drinking. “The benefits of owning a private booth. Don’t worry your pretty little head, Tony, no one’s going to see.”_

_Tony casts another glance around the club, shifting on his knees, then nods, and rests his cheek against the inside of Obie’s thigh. His eyes flutter shut when Obie’s hand threads into his hair, smoothing it back, and away from his sweaty forehead._

_“Look at you,” Obie murmurs, stroking a finger along Tony’s cheek, over Tony’s willingly parting lips. “Beautiful. My beautiful boy.”_

_The sound of a zipper being pulled down has Tony blink his eyes back open, hands reaching out to replace Obie’s. “Let me? Please?”~_

The already painfully familiar picture is grainy, a little out of focus, but Tony is clearly recognisable, sitting back on his knees, and staring up at the the man above him, who’s conveniently cut off from the waist upwards. There’s no mistaking what’s about to happen, despite the low quality of the photo. Tony is dimly aware of someone calling his name, but he can’t look away from the paper, and all he can hear is Howard’s furious yelling, the accusations and disgust, and—and—

_~“Obie? I—please, I don’t know—I don’t know what—Howard, he found out. Someone took a picture, he’s—fuck, he freaked out, I don’t know where to go, can I—can you come—”_

_“This isn’t a good time, Tony,” Obie interrupts, cutlery clinking in the background. “We’re about to have dinner.”_

_Desperate, scared, Tony tries to explain, “No, Obie, you don’t understand, it’s—”_

_“I’m sure it will work itself out, Tony,” Obie says. “We’ll talk soon, all right? Take care, my boy.”_

_Tony stares at the sticky receiver of the public phone long after Obie’s hung up, numb with realisation. Obie doesn’t give a shit. Obie probably knew, must have planned this, otherwise he’d be more worried about Howard, about the picture. Obie knew.~_

“Tony!”

Tony flinches, newspaper dropping from his hands. His vision is blurry. He wipes a hand over his eyes, breath hitching, but eventually manages to look up at Bucky’s concerned face. “I—” he starts, and that’s as far as he gets.

A sob gets stuck in his throat, but the next one comes out unrestricted, followed by another, and another, until Tony’s crying in earnest, and trembling uncontrollably, the events of the last couple of days finally catching up with him. He flails out a shaking hand, unsure what he wants to do with it for a moment before he curls it into Bucky’s apron. When Bucky doesn’t move away, Tony throws his arms around him, and buries his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, hiding away from everything.

Bucky’s arms come up slowly, tentatively, but when Tony presses closer against him, he wraps them tightly around Tony’s shoulders. “I’ve got you,” he whispers, one hand rubbing up and down Tony’s spine, the other cradling the back of Tony’s head. “I’ve got you, Tony, I’m right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obie's a dick. Who's surprised?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been three months, I know. Then again, this is me, and it's only been three months, so. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I'll do my best to get back to my Sunday night schedule, but maybe with new chapters every two to three weeks, instead of every week. We'll see how that goes. 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** Brief mentions of Bucky's past, (sexually) abusive relationship with Brock. More info about Tony's past, (sexually) abusive, underage relationship with Obie.

Tony is shaking all over, half collapsed against Bucky’s chest, his damp face hidden away against Bucky’s neck, and his hands clutching at Bucky’s apron as he gasps and cries. He’s hunching his shoulders, too, trying to make himself as small as possible, and Bucky’s heart aches for him even as he keeps rubbing Tony’s back, and murmuring quiet, hopefully reassuring words. 

Bucky glances up when he hears chairs being pushed back, suddenly nervous when he realises everyone’s getting ready to leave. He’s sure Tony would appreciate some privacy—Bucky sure as fuck would if their roles were reversed—but he has no idea how to handle any of this. Other than hugging, which doesn’t really strike him as a permanent solution. 

He shoots a helpless look at Dum Dum, who beams at him and gives him a humbs up, like that will do any good. Bucky scowls at him, but Dum Dum just mouths back, “You got this, kid,” before herding the others towards the door. 

The jingle of the bell a moment later makes Tony’s head snap up, eyes wide and frantic as they scan the room. He jerks away from Bucky, cheeks flushing, and wraps his arms around himself instead, frowning down at his knees. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I’m fine, it’s fine.” 

Which is complete and utter bullshit, but before Bucky can decide if he should or shouldn’t call him on it, Jacques steps up to them, smiling softly at Tony. “If that’s ever not the case,” he says, sounding sympathetic but not pitying, and puts a business card on the counter next to Tony’s leg, “you can give me a call. And if James starts getting on your nerves, you can always drop by my office for coffee and gossip.”

“Hey,” Bucky protests, but accepts the kiss Jacques presses to his cheek. “You gonna pay for your food, at least?” 

Jacques winks at him over his shoulder, waves, and chirps, gleeful, “Maybe next time, chéri.” 

“Fuckin’ assholes,” Bucky grumbles to himself, shaking his head with a sigh. 

“Trauma counselling?” Tony has picked up Jacques card, fiddling with one corner of it. He’s frowning a little, nose wrinkled. “Isn’t that for, like, vets and war refugees?”

“Can be,” Bucky agrees, and steps away to collect the dirty cups and dishes, giving his hands something to do while he considers how to go about this. 

He’s got questions—a lot of them, and even more concerns—after getting a glimpse of his own at the picture that had, understandably, made Tony freak out. But Tony looks pretty shaken up, still, so Bucky bites his tongue, and says instead, “But trauma’s not always that straightforward, it’s not always violent shit that causes it. Like, Stevie’s kids? Some of ‘em come from abusive families, yeah, but that’s not the only reason he and Peg are takin’ them to family therapy. Havin’ a parent die is tough, obviously, an’ just movin’ to a new location with new people can be a lot for a little kid. Sarah, my foster mother, she started seein’ someone when she got her cancer diagnosis. She’s in remission now,” he adds, when Tony’s eyes widen.

“Jacques focuses on vets and their families, mostly, but he gets other clients, too. Kids whose parents are gettin’ divorced, some people who spent time in prison and need help readjustin’ to regular life. There’s people who have trouble dealin’ with current affairs or political stuff, like natural disasters or shootings, things like that. Then there’s victims of domestic abuse, sexual violence and—”

“Ob—he didn’t do that,” Tony cuts in sharply. His glaring at Bucky, holding himself all defensively, his knuckles turning white where he’s holding gripping the fabric of his pants. “He wasn’t like that, I never said no. You can’t—why would you—just, don’t say that. About him. He wouldn’t. And it’s none of your business anyway, what we had. And it’s over now, so. Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

“Not sayin’ no doesn’t mean what happened was right,” Bucky points out, but holds up his hands, placating, when Tony goes to stand, angry now. “And I wasn’t tryin’ to imply anything. I was speakin’ from experience.”

That makes Tony stop in his tracks, clearly caught off guard. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and then, finally, murmurs a quiet, contrite, “I’m sorry.”

Bucky shrugs, and hipchecks Tony gently on his way back into the kitchen. “C’mon, I’ve got a first aid kit in the back. Let me have a look at your lip, you screwed up your strips,” he says, instead of telling Tony that it’s okay. 

Because it’s not—it never was, and it never will be—but it’s also not Tony’s fault. Not what happened to Bucky, and not what Bucky suspects might’ve happened to Tony, given Tony’s reaction to the picture. It’s all assumptions for now, though, and the last thing Bucky wants is to spook Tony, make him run off and do something stupid. 

“So,” Tony says, when Bucky’s trying to apply a new set of butterfly stitches to his lip. Bucky quirks an eyebrow at him, and Tony rolls his eyes, but waits until Bucky’s done before he goes on. “Are you and Jacques, uh. Are the two of you—are you—”

“Gay?” Bucky finishes, and can’t help but chuckle when Tony nods and blushes. He grabs the arnica gel, and starts to carefully rub some into the bruise around Tony’s eye. “I am, yeah. And we used to, but not anymore. Just friends, now. Why’re you askin’?” 

“No reason,” Tony says, and absolutely fails to sound casual. 

Bucky hums non-committally, and purposefully turns his back to put the supplies away. He can hear Tony fiddle with some of the bowls and whisks, tap his fingers against the metal of the work table. It takes a minute, but eventually Tony takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and says, “I think I prefer men? I mean, I definitely like women, but I definitely like men, too?” 

He’s playing with his cuticles when Bucky looks back at him, and doing his best to loosen the damned stitches again by nervously sucking on his lower lip. “And I knew Howard would lose his shit over it, but—but the guy, from the pictures. I’ve known him for a long time, you know? And he’s—we’ve always been close, and he didn’t get angry when he found out, and sometimes Howard—sometimes Howard listens to him. And I like—well, liked him, I guess. A lot. And I thought, maybe, if it’s him, Howard will be okay with it? And even if not, I’d still have—I’d still have him.” 

He laughs, harsh and ugly. “Which was really fucking stupid, obviously, because now there’s a picture, and everyone knows about—about some older guy, when no-one even knew about the liking men thing before, and—and it sucks.”

Before Bucky can even sort through all of that, Tony sniffs, and continues, voice wobbling, “He’s married, for fuck’s sake. I don’t know—what was I thinking? I’m a terrible person, I know his wife. I know his son. But he was nice, or at least he pretended to be. To care. He was the only one who knew, and he—he told me he loved me, and fuck, I believed him, because I’m stupid, and—” 

Tony takes a shaking, wet breath, but then he visibly steels himself, forcing himself to pull it together. He actually meets Bucky’s eyes, and even smiles a little, sad and exhausted as it may be. “Sorry. For, you know. Crying all over you, all the time. And thanks. For everything.” 

Bucky shrugs, smiling back. “Crying’s cathartic as fuck.” 

That makes Tony laugh, surprised. Bucky winks at him, and, before he properly thinks about it, reaches out to cup his face, and wipe the tears away from his cheeks. He’s afraid that it’s too much for a moment—considering last night’s kiss, and some of Tony’s earlier revelations—but then Tony leans into it, humming softly. “Thanks,” he says again, mumbled quietly.

“Any time,” Bucky reassures, moving his hands to squeeze Tony’s shoulders, giving him a gentle shake. 

He ruffles Tony’s hair when he moves back, and Tony scowls, but he’s laughing again. Twice in less than five minutes; Bucky’s pretty proud of himself. 

“So.” Bucky claps his hands together, then points at the big bag of flour in the corner. “I know you’ve finished college already, so ‘m goin’ to assume you know how to measure stuff.” 

Tony nods, mock serious. “I think I can probably handle that.” 

Bucky flicks the towel he’s picked up at him. “Smartass. Get to it.” 

“Aye-aye, sir!” Tony chirps, and salutes, then dances out of the way, cackling, before Bucky can swat at him again. 

Three times. Bucky’s totally got this comforting shit locked down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Concerned Steve, protective Bucky, and Howard.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up almost half a year later* Oops?
> 
> But we get to meet Howard in this chapter, and I know you've all been looking forward to that. Hahahaha. Ha...
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** implied/past physical child abuse

“No.” Tony sets his jaw, and crosses his arms over his chest to hide how much his hands are shaking. “No way.” 

Across the table, Steve sighs, and lifts one hand from where he’s cradling his cup of coffee. The motion makes Tony flinch out of habit, and Steve pauses with his fingers shoved halfway into his hair, his mouth turning down at the corners. Tony scowls at him, because fuck that, he doesn’t need some random goody two-shoe’s pity. 

Steve’s voice is softer than before when he says, “Tony, listen,” and that just makes Tony angrier, because he’s not—not delicate, or broken, or whatever. “I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult this must be for you, but—”

“I said no!” Tony snaps, then immediately shrinks back in his seat, out of reach. Just in case. He keeps glaring at Steve, though, chest heaving, and chin lifted defiantly. 

Next to Tony, Bucky shifts slightly, pressing his thigh against Tony’s under the table. “Take a deep breath,” he says, and just quirks an eyebrow, unimpressed, when Tony bares his teeth at him. “Deep an’ slow, Tony, c’mon.”

It’s only when he tries, and it makes his chest hurt, that Tony realises how fast his heart is beating, how tight his throat feels. His lungs burn when he, finally, breathes in properly again, making him grimace, and cough a little. 

“Here.” Bucky reaches for the bottle of water to refill Tony’s glass. “Small sips, ‘kay?” 

He rubs Tony’s back while Tony drinks, and gives the back of Tony’s neck a gentle squeeze when Tony mumbles a quiet, “Thanks.” 

Bucky’s arm ends up draped along the back of the Tony’s chair, even when he turns back to Steve, making it easy for Tony to subtly lean into Bucky’s side, still shaken enough to want the comfort. Although, probably not discreetly enough, if the way Steve’s eyes track the movement is anything to go by. He has a look on his face that Tony can’t read, but he doesn’t say anything, and Bucky doesn’t seem to mind, so Tony stays where he is. 

“There’s nothin’ else we can do?” Bucky asks Steve, while Tony goes back to nibbling on his sandwich. “Havin’ him go back doesn’t sound like the best idea. Or the safest.” 

“He wouldn’t be going alone,” Steve points out. Then, to Tony, he adds, “I’d be with you the entire time. Bucky, too, if you want. We won’t let anything happen to you, Tony, I promise. The instant your father steps out of line, we’re out of there. But you’re still a minor, and asking him for permission for you to stay here is the only way we can avoid involving the authorities, and make sure Bucky doesn’t get in trouble for any of this.”

Tony pulls a face, shoving some crumbs around his plate. He knows that Steve’s right, but that doesn’t make the prospect of going home and facing Howard any more appealing. “He threw me out, though,” he says. “Can’t we use that against him, somehow?” 

Steve shakes his head, looking apologetic. “Only if we went the CPS route. They’d place you in a group home while investigating your father, probably rehome you permanently eventually. But something like that can take weeks, sometimes even months.”

“Yeah, no.” Tony slumps back in his chair, and rubs at his eyes, letting out a defeated sigh. 

He could refuse, and both Bucky and Steve would most likely drop the issue, but that wouldn’t actually solve their current problem. Chances are Howard doesn’t give a shit about what Tony gets up to now that he’s been more or less disowned—he rarely did before, unless it somehow affected him or his reputation directly—but Howard’s also unpredictable, especially when he’s drunk. Which is almost always, nowadays. 

“It would be nice to get some of my stuff,” Tony says, eventually. He balls up his napkin, tossing it down on his plate, and sits up straight. “And it’s not like Howard’s going to do anything if I show up with a guy in uniform.”

Tony’s only about fifty percent sure about that, but what other options does he have, really? And when they arrive at the mansion forty-five minutes later—and wow, having to ring the bell at his own, former house is really weird—he’s happy to see it’s Jarvis who opens the door, looking tired and drawn, but also extremely relieved as soon as his eyes land on Tony. 

“Hi, J,” Tony mumbles, and lets Jarvis pull him into a hug that’s just a little too tight, especially given his sore ribs. But he clings back anyway, resting his forehead against Jarvis’s shoulder so no one’s going to see how close to crying he is once again. 

Jarvis insists on checking Tony over after ushering all of them into the kitchen, where Ana demands a hug of her own before she starts to fuss over Bucky and Steve, offering tea and snacks. Tony happily scarfs down half a dozen of her signature plum dumplings, half listening to Steve explain what’s happening, and simultaneously keeping an ear out for Howard. 

Ana gives him a knowing look, and a sad smile. “He’s been down in his workshop ever since last night.” 

Which could mean anything, really. That he’s actually busy working on something, or sulking and getting hammered. It’s impossible to tell what’s going on, or what kind of mood he’s going to be in once he re-emerges eventually. The one thing Tony’s sure about is that he wants to have his things packed, and be ready to go before Howard shows up, so that they can beat a hasty retreat if things get dicey. 

Jarvis hovers worriedly while Tony gathers his things, clearly not entirely comfortable with the idea of Tony actually, properly leaving with two virtual strangers, but also well aware that Tony staying will only escalate things further. Tony knows that Jarvis and Ana feel guilty, even though Tony doesn’t blame them in the slightest; Howard had been careful, at first, to not let people see him at his worst, and even later on, after Jarvis had walked in on Howard backhanding Tony, there had still been his and Ana’s livelihoods at stake. 

Not that that had prevented Ana from immediately calling the police, but the officers showing up had been pretty reluctant to piss off a close friend of both the mayor and the police chief, so nothing much had come of that.

Tony is in his bathroom, looking for his toilet bag, when Jarvis, Bucky, and Steve suddenly fall quiet. Swallowing hard, fingers clenched tightly around his favourite towel, Tony pokes his head back into his room, not surprised to see Howard standing in the doorway. 

He’s squinting at Steve with red-rimmed eyes, cleary hungover, and not entirely sure what’s going on yet. Steve has drawn himself up to his full, not inconsiderable height, his face hard and stern. As Tony watches, Howard’s eyes drop to Steve’s badge, and then his entire posture changes, going tense.

“Mr Stark—” Steve greets, and before he’s even fully realised that he’s moving, Tony is standing in front of Steve, and interrupts with a hopefully not too shaky, “Howard.” 

If Howard gets into a snit about the police showing up unannounced, no matter how unofficial Steve’s business here is, it’s going to take forever until they’ll be able to leave. So, instead, Tony says, as decisive as he can manage, “I’m going to stay with a friend for a while.”

Howard keeps staring at Steve for a moment longer, then looks down at Tony, giving a slight nod. “Behave yourself,” he says, slightly slurred. Tony forces himself to stay still as Howard reaches out to grab his chin, angling his face into the light. “And put something on this. Can’t have you walking around looking like a thug.” 

With that, he turns around, and walks away. Bucky waits a few seconds longer before saying, voice entirely flat, “What the fuck?”

“Buck, don’t—” Steve starts, but is cut off by Bucky’s incredulous, “No, Stevie, what the fuck? He—did he—is he fuckin’ serious?”

They both turn to stare at Tony when Tony says, “I don’t think he remembers. Yesterday, I mean. What happened.” 

Jarvis puts a hand on Tony’s shoulder, and Tony turns to give him a trembling little smile. “It’s fine. I mean, this is probably better, right?”

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters, shaking his head. He picks up Tony’s bag from where it’s lying on the bed, then jerks his thumb at the bathroom. “C’mon, finish up in there. And then let’s get the fuck outta here.” 

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, breathing out slowly. “Yeah, let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is now also part of the [prompt challenge](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/promptcollection) I'm running with [InnerCinema](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innercinema), since it fills the "new chapter for a WIP" prompt. Yeah, we know ourselves, and give prompts accordingly.

**Author's Note:**

> Go check out my other [work](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Potrix/works), or come over and say hi on [tumblr](http://potrix-the-queerschlaeger.tumblr.com/).


End file.
